I constantly had to remind myself I’d chosen the solitude, but Jenna took the sting out of it.
After everything Mark had done to me, I should have hated him. And in most ways, I did. But with that kind of deceit, most wasn’t enough. Late at night, alone in my apartment, I resented him more than anything else. No matter how much I told myself he was an evil human being who had hit me, kidnapped me, and drugged me, I still felt his loss on a profound level. To me, he would always be the quiet kid I’d met in high school, desperate for help. Trying to mentally separate the boy he had once been from the man he’d become was a mindfuck I couldn’t escape.
On one hand, I felt the visceral heartbreak of knowing he was forever gone from the Earth.
On the other, the relief knowing he couldn’t hurt me anymore was staggering.
I didn’t remember the woman I’d become after he’d taken me the first time, but I’d heard the stories about how I’d spiraled into the darkness. With that knowledge, I became hyperaware and vigilant about my mental health, hell-bent on not allowing yet another trauma to steal more of my life.
I went to therapy. Lots and lots of therapy. One-on-one. Group. Trauma. Cognitive. Behavioral. You name it and my ass was in the seat at least once a week. However, I was still a long way from being able to make any semblance of peace with the man I had once considered a brother.
But still, struggling every step of the way, I carried on. Because withering in the dark was not an option for me this time. Like the plants I so dearly loved, every passing day brought another opportunity to grow and flourish in the light.
The light wasn’t nearly as bright anymore, but it was still there if I looked hard enough.
Jenna slid off the counter and set Sugar on the floor. He raced my way, tap dancing against my legs until I picked him up for a cuddle.
“So,” she asked. “You whipping up any dessert tonight?”
Cooking was still an uphill battle for me, but I could usually be counted on for some kind of sweet treat. I couldn’t remember anything from those eleven months before the plane crash, yet I could make a chocolate chip banana bread that would bring a person to the brink of orgasm. I couldn’t begin to express the bitterness I felt about how baking, of all things, was what my Swiss cheese brain had retained from my past life. Eventually, after more of that aforementioned therapy, I’d accepted baking as my consolation-prize superpower. At least I had cookies to keep me company through my frustration.
I set Sugar down and went to the sink to wash my hands. “I wasn’t planning on baking tonight, but I have some caramel brownies left over from yesterday.”
“Yesssss. Maybe we should have a little appetizer.”
“Well, the kimchi has to marinate for a few hours, so if you’re hungry, we should probably order pizza as an appetizer too.” Like they did so often, a memory snuck up on me and caused a pang in my stomach as I remembered eating pizza with Bowen at his conference table.
It wasn’t an old memory of our first time together. Those would probably never be unlocked. But I could still reminisce about his smile when I’d teased him for being such a big old nerd.
The high I’d felt later that night when he’d pressed me against my car as his lips came down—
Nope. Nope. Nope. Hard stop.
I wasn’t thinking about him. Not if I could help it. My subconscious would have a few things to say about him while I slept later that night. He always seemed to find me there the most. They were the most beautiful nightmares I would ever experience.
I cleared my throat, trying to shake off the permanent hold the man had on me. It was a pointless attempt, but I’d gotten pretty good at convincing myself it was working.
“Or I could make you a sandwich?” I suggested. Anything to get away from thoughts of pizza and Bowen Michaels.
“Nah, the brownie should be good enough.” She walked across my small galley kitchen to the cake plate I kept in the corner. Not bothering with the knife beside it, she popped the top and tore off a corner. “You did say there was wine, right?”
I laughed, but it was forced. “Yeah. Pour me a glass too.” I took out the strainer, rinsed the cucumbers, and then propped my phone up against my favorite teal-and-white canisters—another thrift store find—to follow the recipe.
Jenna wasted no time opening wine and dividing it into two glasses filled to the brim. “So, how was work today? Did you sell any houses?”
“No offers or anything, but I had a few leads. So that’s good.”
